Mercy
by Abisian
Summary: Sansa remembers that night much differently than the Hound. Companion piece to Reverie (Clegane's recollection). Elements from both show and books. San/San.


Sansa remembers this night much differently than Sandor Clegane. Takes place just after the Red Wedding. Enjoy.

* * *

Sansa stood at the window of her room in the Red Keep, looking down on the city through red, swollen eyes. The sun was setting on the opposite shore of the Blackwater, turning the water to molten gold and bathing her chambers with a red-orange glow.

On the low windowsill in front of her were the ashes of a burned letter, scattering in the light breeze. She'd read the letter half a hundred times before realizing she was driving herself mad; burning the letter had been the only way to prevent her eyes from searching the smeared letters for some small sign that it was only a jape. Surely Joffery had penned this cruel letter to torment her, to watch her cry and grieve. But no, she could feel in her bones the truth of the words. Robb was dead; her mother was dead; her chances of being rescued were dead.

Sansa breathed deeply through her nose and pulled the white cloak tighter around her shoulders. The cloak had been the first thing she'd turned to after requesting her Lord Tyrion and her handmaidens leave her chamber. She'd locked the door and gone to her cedar chest, pulling out her summer silks and abandoning them where they fell until her hands found the white cloak hidden underneath. It was dirty, smeared with dried blood, and smelled of smoke and must. The fabric was singed in places, small burn holes dotting the hem. It was no replacement for the man who once wore it, but as she swung it around her shoulders and pulled it around her she felt safer somewhat, almost comforted.

With the cloak pulled around her and its musty scent filling her nose, she burned the letter and watched as the ashes settled on the breeze and floated off, little by little until there were none left to torment her.

Bowing her head, Sansa lifted the edge of the cloak to her face and let out a great sob, muffled into the fabric. Her misery was compounded into this one moment; she'd never felt such agony. Her family had been torn apart forever; first her father, then her two younger brothers, and now her oldest brother and mother as well. Arya's fate was left completely unknown to her, but she could only assume the worst. Aside from her bastard half-brother, Sansa was the only one left. There was no one on whom to place her trust; no one to dream of to come and rescue her from the Queen's cruel clutches. Even the Hound had abandoned her.

The Hound had never been particularly kind; the small mercies he bestowed upon her could not truly be considered kindnesses, yet he had comforted her somehow. She felt safer knowing he was there to wipe her bloodied lip or cover her folly when a slip of the tongue brought Joffery's rage down upon her. And now more than ever she questioned her decision to flee King's Landing the night he fought at Blackwater. If she had gone with him, where would she be? Would he have taken her to her brother Robb? Would she be dead now as well? Surely death would be a kinder fate than the agony she felt in her heart at that moment.

The memory of the night he'd come for her still brought feelings of trepidation and terror and nausea. He'd scared her witless when he'd grabbed her arm and threatened her … but then he'd asked her to run away with him, to flee King's Landing and go to the North. He'd wanted to protect her, keep her safe. He'd said as much himself. He had been drunk that night, she recalled, and she could smell it on his breath as he'd leaned in closer. He'd ordered her to look at him, really look at him. But why? It was all such a blur, but she remembered that he'd gotten angry then and pushed her back onto her bed and demanded a song. He'd remembered that she'd promised him a song of knights and love.

Instead she sang him a song of innocence and mercy and compassion. Right then, so terrified and scared and afraid that he would slit her throat, the words about Florian and Jonquil would not come to her. She sang to him though her voice was choked with frightened tears, and when she was done he only looked at her. She remembered numbly lifting her hand to cup his scarred, ruined cheek and felt tears and blood on the puckered flesh before he pressed himself against her and kissed her roughly. It was a short encounter, the moment their lips met, but she relived it often. Sometimes she imagined she could still feel his lips pressing against hers, his scars against her cheek. A tiny pressure had built itself up in her lower abdomen, an ache she was unfamiliar with and began to feel again in her belly just remembering him pressed against her. "Little bird," he'd whispered roughly in her ear. Just the sound of his rough voice made that tiny ball of pressure clench in her belly and send a jolt down between her thighs. But then it was over and he was up, wrenching his cloak from his shoulders and balling it up, tossing it to the floor.

He'd walked out of her chamber, leaving her lying on the bed; her last chance to escape the damnable city had left.

She'd curled herself into his cloak that night just as she had in the present, seeking comfort and protection. She had not seen or heard of the Hound since that night, except for the stray whisper that he'd gone craven that night and fled. She knew the truth; she knew of his dark secret and his fear of fire. Although she was no longer Joffery's to torment, Sansa found herself wishing more and more that the Hound had not yet left; that he'd only waited a little longer for her her to be ready, to come to her senses, for events to unfold. He hadn't, and now she was alone. She might never see him again.

Sansa lifted her leg to recline against the windowsill, watching as the sky grew darker and night fell. She burrowed herself deeper into the cloak so that she might relive that terrible, wonderful night again. 

* * *

Now that that's done, I feel I should explain things a bit. I understand Sansa is young; I think she's only 12 (in the books) by this point. However, she has already hit puberty, is already married, and though she has no experience and no understanding as so what it feels like and means to be sexually aroused, I feel like she would be feeling these feelings already, naivete aside. Even if that's out of character for Sansa, I still feel like it's realistic.

I love their relationship and dynamic; what they have is beautiful.


End file.
